


Seeking

by The_Cool_Aunt



Series: DISPATCH BOX [27]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Adorable Sherlock, Affection, Arthur Conan Doyle Canon References, Canon Compliant, Domestic Bliss, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Homosexuality, M/M, Male Homosexuality, Victorian Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-07
Updated: 2017-03-07
Packaged: 2018-09-30 06:13:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10155896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Cool_Aunt/pseuds/The_Cool_Aunt
Summary: I was a bit puzzled, therefore, when I found the door to our sitting-room closed. There was a note affixed to it.For all his intensity and sometimes anguished internal life, Sherlock Holmes also had a love of the dramatic and a puckish sense of humour. Within this piece of unpublished writing, Dr John Watson has enfolded several small pieces of paper that bear the distinct handwriting of the detective.





	

I had been away attending to a patient—a neighbour with a bad chest—and had left Sherlock to his own devices for several hours. He had been in an excellent mood, somehow enjoying an expansive breakfast whilst simultaneously rattling on about some test or other than he anticipated perfecting that very day.  
  
“I am so very close, John,” he exulted, gesturing expansively with a piece of toast.  
  
“That’s excellent news, my darling,” I told him, brushing the spray of crumbs off my jacket. I did not quite know at that point what his intent was. I knew it had something to do with detecting something at the scene of a crime, but every time I asked him to clarify himself, he would get caught up in his rambling explanations and I would be no closer to understanding what he was seeking than when he had begun. I knew that eventually he would explain (and demonstrate) all.  
  
The bell rang. I rose and peered down. I frowned. The woman who stood there was familiar to me, but I could not immediately place her. I heard the quick steps of Mrs. Hudson as she crossed the hall and cautiously opened the door.  
  
Sherlock glanced over at me, chewing. “What is it?” he mumbled around his sausage.  
  
“Mmm… don’t think it’s a client. She’s local—oh, yes! Now I recall. She works in her father’s shop around the corner. Perhaps she is here to visit Mrs. Hudson,” I suggested.  
  
There was a quiet knock. The door to the corridor was open—Mrs. Hudson had left it that way when she had brought up the breakfast tray, obviously noting that we were, for once, decently dressed and decently engaged. Our landlady now stood there.  
  
“Doctor Watson,” she called out, “the young lady at the door requires your services.”  
  
“Oh?” I moved toward her. Sherlock, still chewing, looked with interest to me and then to Mrs. Hudson.  
  
“It’s Felicity Thatcher from around the corner,” she explained. “Her father is quite ill.”  
  
I immediately went for my medical bag and then my overcoat. “I will go at once,” I declared, settling my collar and taking up my hat. “Sherlock, do behave yourself whilst I’m out.”  
  
He frowned at me. “I always behave myself,” he declared, and if Mrs. Hudson had not been there I would have kissed the ridiculous pout.  
  
Mrs. Hudson snorted in amusement. “I look forward to that,” she stated, turning to precede me down the stairs.  
  
*  
  
I was away several hours. Mr. Thatcher was, indeed, quite ill. He was an older man—quite old for having a daughter of Miss Thatcher’ age, I thought. I could hear his laboured breathing before the young lady had even shown me to his bedroom—they had rooms over his shop—and I knew that I had my work cut out for me.  
  
I ascended our stairs wearily. It was just about the time that Mrs. Hudson generally brought us tea, and I looked forward to it.  
  
I was a bit puzzled, therefore, when I found the door to our sitting-room closed. There was a note affixed to it. I detached it and unfolded it. It was covered in Sherlock’s distinctive handwriting, and I have preserved it here.  
  
[The doctor had apparently numbered the small stack of notes; each had been written on a half sheet of high-quality stationery and folded over. The following is the first note.]  
  
“Come in and help yourself to some of Mrs. Hudson’s lovely bread-and-butter. There was cake but I ate it all. —Sherlock”  
  
*  
  
It amused me that he had signed it; as if there could be any possible question as to who had written it. I entered, closing the door behind myself. As I tossed my bag to the floor and hung my overcoat, I noted that I was alone. No Sherlock in evidence. Perhaps he had gone out (after eating all the cake). He had apparently successfully completed his experiment—his work-table was relatively tidy and there were sealed envelopes with mysterious notes written on each, apparently documenting his results. I turned my attention to our dining-table. There was, as promised, some lovely bread-and-butter, and the tea pot under its cosy was still warm. I seated myself.  
  
There was a second note, neatly deposited on my plate.  
  
“After you have refreshed yourself, why not remove your boots? –Sherlock”  
  
Why not? I did as had been suggested. He had even left me my current book so I could read while enjoying my refreshment. When I was done, I removed my boots, deposited them by the door, and discovered a third note inside my left slipper.  
  
“Your dressing gown is on your chair. You will want to divest yourself of your coat after being in the sick-room all day. –Sherlock”  
  
He was absolutely correct. I removed and hung up my coat and turned. Sure enough, there was my dressing gown—a gift from him on my last birthday—draped neatly over the back of my chair. I slipped into it and discovered a note in one of the pockets.  
  
“I got you more of that tobacco you mentioned enjoying last week. Have a smoke. –Sherlock”  
  
I chuckled as I crossed the room to the fireplace, where, having adopted Sherlock’s habit, I tended to leave my pipes decorating the mantelpiece. I was not, at this point, surprised to find a fifth missive underneath my favourite one.  
  
“No, I forgot that I used it all for an experiment. You will enjoy what I have in my Persian slipper, however. –Sherlock”  
  
I laughed aloud. He was so very droll; how could I get irritated? I retrieved his Persian slipper and prepared my pipe. I lit a match and got it going before opening the next note, which had been tucked into the embroidered slipper—I was careful to brush the bits of tobacco back into it rather than on the floor.  
  
“You left your book on the table. –Sherlock.”  
  
Oh, he could be amusing! Because, of course, he was exactly right. Puffing to keep my pipe going, I retrieved my book and made myself comfortable in my chair—the cushion crinkled.  
  
“It was rather close in our rooms earlier, so I opened the windows. I moved your chair a bit so it isn’t in a draught. –Sherlock.”  
  
I shook my head, opened my book, and began to read. Then next one was tucked at the end of the second chapter I completed.  
  
“I placed your correspondence on your desk. –Sherlock”  
  
I closed my book, rose, and went over to my desk. Sure enough, there were a few letters, and I was not surprised in the slightest when the now-familiar folded sheet fell out from between them.  
  
“Your bill for your new boots reminded me that I need my second-best brown pair mended. Will you please put them by the door so I remember to do so? –Sherlock”  
  
I snorted. Meretricious—there was no indication of the sender on the envelope in which the bill for my boots was contained. No indications that I could detect, at least. I examined it more closely. Other than the postmark showing from where and when it had been posted, I had no idea. I would allow him to tell me later and praise him for his genius, of course.  
  
Then I obediently took myself into his bedroom. I rummaged around among the various shoes and boots in his wardrobe before retrieving the damaged pair. I was a bit puzzled—I had assumed that I would discover another note in one of them. I rose—and there it was, pinned to the inside of the wardrobe door, at my eye level.  
  
This one read: “I noted a draught coming from your bedroom. I believe you need to examine your fireplace. –Sherlock”  
  
Ah. At last. When I had been directed into his bedroom, only to find it empty, I knew where he was awaiting my arrival. I dropped his boots (where they would surely trip one of us—that seemed a sufficient reminder to have them tended to) and eagerly approached the door that joined our bedrooms.  
  
I opened the door slightly. The gas was up, and despite his claims of a draught, the room was noticeably warmer than his. As I entered, I laughed aloud with delight at the sight that greeted me.  
  
My darling was stretched out on my bed, quite bare. And quite lovely.  
  
As I entered, he looked up from the book he held and smiled so sweetly at me. I wonder—if I got myself a camera, could I ever capture that look on his face? It was no use taking him to a photographic studio, for that expression could never be replicated outside of the privacy of our homely rooms.  
  
I wondered if I could also capture the sight of his beautiful skin, seemingly even paler than usual as he stretched languidly across my dark eiderdown cover.  
  
I was next to the bed in an instant, smiling down at him. Almost shyly, he handed me one final note:  
  
“Please come to bed. I need to be kissed. –Sherlock.”  
  
He did not need to ask a second time.  
  



End file.
